


Party Trick

by romanticallyinept



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Aftercare, Anal Sex, Begging, Biting, Bottom Mirage | Elliott Witt, Bruises, Crying, Dacryphilia, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mild Humiliation, Multi, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Self-cest, Sex with Mirage | Elliott Witt's Decoys, Subspace, Teasing, Top Mirage | Elliott Witt, holograms, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-13 16:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21173903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticallyinept/pseuds/romanticallyinept
Summary: Elliott really isn't the most useless legend.His skills just aren'tviablein the field.Kinktober 2019 fill for:2. Ass Worship |Begging| Medical Play | Watersports11. Object Insertion | Sounding | Cross-Dressing |Dacryphilia





	Party Trick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psychthriller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychthriller/gifts).

> Happy birthday psychthriller! Here, have porn. 
> 
> Content warning/spoiler: Elliott gets fucked by one of his clones and Crypto joins in on the fun. All parties are very into it, but it wasn't discussed before.

“Oi! I am not the most inca...incompen… incamp…, fuck, the most _useless_ legend!”

Park sighs, barely resisting the urge to reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose. Visible signs of distress are an absolute no-go. The people around him, his fellow legends, they aren’t friends. They aren’t allies. They’re… colleagues, at the very most, colleagues who kill each other every few days and then brush it off because it’s all a game. Showing signs of weakness would be stupid.

Elliott, however, doesn’t appear to have the same qualms.

The trickster is draped over the back of a couch, his head propped up in his hands as he stares at Park, his face contorted into an expression that reads shock, betrayal, and arrogance all at once. Elliott’s fine revealing his weaknesses - his pride, his lackadaisical nature, his inability to take anything seriously, ever. He’s fine letting Renee walk by the couch and shove him off the edge and onto the pillows, where he lands with a muffled grunt and a, “Fuck you, I was _perching_.”

Park doesn’t comment on the interaction. He’s drawn enough attention to himself already, answering Alexander’s question on who they all thought had the worst kit. The answer had seemed obvious enough - Elliott’s holograms were useful, but only in certain situations. They certainly didn’t compare to Ajay’s D.O.C., or Makoa’s shield, or Park’s drone. 

“No one called yah whiny ass useless,” Ajay calls. A hand appears over the back of the couch, its middle finger raised and turned in the healer’s general direction. She snorts; the hand falls back down dramatically. 

“My clones are plenty useful,” Elliott snaps. “It’s not my fault I have limited resources after we’ve dropped. I can’t keep them active for more than a few seconds. But, like, they’re so much cooler than that when we’re on the ship.” A mop of dark curls pops up over the back of the couch, and Elliott’s eyes fix on Park. “You’re just jealous there’s only one of you.”

The hacker rolls his eyes. “There is only one of you as well,” he says. “Your ‘clones’ are nothing more than party tricks.”

“Rude,” Elliott mutters. He points a finger at Park, and opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but then he just… doesn’t. He cocks his head, and slowly, something like a grin spreads across his face.

Then Park blinks, and Elliott disappears into shimmering blue pixels.

As he’s trying to find his voice, trying to reconcile the fact that he’d been talking to a hologram, Renee walks back into his field of vision. 

“It’s a pretty impressive,” she says. “I mean, as far as party tricks go, at least.”

* * *

After that, Elliott almost never appears in the singular. 

If he’s on kitchen duty, one of him will be prepping ingredients and humming to himself while the other carefully explains to whoever will listen that the recipe is time-tested and _yes, Natalie, I know how to make sure pork is fully cooked_.

It’s really unlike anything Park has ever seen before. He’d known Elliott was an engineer, knew that he came from a family of engineers, so of course it made sense that his holograms were more than just… holograms. On the ship, they were like their own entities, at times operating completely independently from Elliott. 

(Once, Park stumbles into the common area, sleep-deprived and delirious from a nightmare. He finds Elliott in the kitchen with a frilly white apron tied around his waist, pouring batter into a muffin pan. And maybe part of him aches for the company, for the presence of another human being, but he can’t risk it, can’t make himself vulnerable. He turns to leave, only to find that the door to Elliott’s room is slightly ajar, revealing that the man is tucked into bed, fast asleep. Drooling, even.)

It’s fascinating, of course. Park is no stranger to AI, but Elliott’s clones are anything but run-of-the-mill. Their personalities are clearly based on his psyche, but they aren’t copies. They react differently, even in the same situations. There’s an element of randomness, of chaos, that makes them almost human.

Almost. Except for the way they fade to nothing when Elliott wants them to.

Park is… intrigued. Not obsessed. Just… curious. That’s all. He wants to know more. Perhaps he can repurpose some of the technology to make copies of his drone, make himself a more formidable opponent in the ring.

After all, _scientific inquiry_ didn’t kill the cat.

* * *

It’s an off day when it happens, a day the legends have to themselves. Park is the only one who remains on the ship. The others disembark, touching down on a nearby planet for some good old-fashioned R&R.

Park is in the middle of sending a software update to his drone when he hears it. It’s a faint sound, barely noticeable, but the ship is quiet. It sounds like a voice, or two voices, hushed and urgent. Park can’t pick out a tone, but anything spoken in a whisper like that is information he’s interested in.

He nudges the drone, but it’s still offline, and will be until it’s done with the update. Park shakes his head - he’s gotten compliant, lazy. He assumed he was safe, on the ship with everyone gone, and he left himself without his primary tool as a result.

The whispering grows a little louder, and Park jerks up from his seat. He’s careful to move silently, slipping out of his room and into the hallway without a sound. Whoever’s on the ship, Park wants the element of surprise on his side. Best case scenario, a few of the legends decided to come back early. Worst case… Park grimaces. The ship could very easily become a bloodbath.

Slowly, Park tiptoes around the corner, ears straining to pick up the sounds. They’re coming from Elliott’s room, the one furthest down the hall, but they’re still muffled, stifled, almost. Park can’t pick out words, just the murmur of two voices.

He eases closer, pressed against the wall. He’s within arm’s reach of the door when he stops again, all but holding his breath as he listens. The voices are definitely louder, now, but they’re still indistinct. Park can’t make out words. But he can hear the sound of labored breathing, and _fuck_, that doesn’t bode well.

Weapons aren’t allowed on the dropship. Park grits his teeth, wishing for something. Anything other than his own two fists. But without his drone, that’s all he has.

Bracing himself, Park reaches out, pushing the door open.

The sight on the other side is… unexpected, to say the least. 

The voice belongs to Elliott. Except that’s not quite right, because there’s two voices, and they _both_ belong to Elliott. Or versions of him. Either way, there’s two Elliotts in the room, but that’s not what makes Park’s breath catch in his throat. No, the reason for that isn’t the number of tricksters in the room, but what they’re doing.

One Elliott is on his elbows and knees, facedown in a pillow, ass in the air. He’s naked, and there’s a fine sheen of sweat on his back, droplets pooling in the dimples above his ass and trickling down his sides. His skin is flushed, and his breathing is heavy - the muffled sounds are coming from him, and they’re _moans_.

The other one (Mirage, Park decides to call him, because when they’re together he can tell the difference between holo and man) is on his knees behind Elliott. He’s wearing the jumpsuit, but it’s been tugged open in the middle, just enough for him to pull his dick out. Park can’t see it though, not really, because Mirage has it buried deep in Elliott’s ass and is grinding forward into him with sharp, precise movements.

Park chokes, and Mirage looks up. 

“Enjoying the view?” he asks, and Elliott fucking _whimpers_. He doesn’t lift his head from the pillow, though, just cants his hips back in a silent plea for more. Like Park isn’t there, like he isn’t standing in the doorway _watching_, already straining against the zipper of his pants. He doesn’t answer, but Mirage grins anyway, the expression lazy and cocky. 

“He’s a needy little slut,” Mirage says, punctuating his words with a sharp thrust of his hips. The movement makes Elliott’s whole body jerk, twisting like he’s trying to escape the sensation and get more of it, all at once. “Sometimes it takes two of us, just to give him what he wants. What he needs. It’s hard to find a fan who will lay him over the closest flat surface and fuck him ‘til he cries, so he has to do it to himself.”

Mirage reaches out, sliding his fingers into Elliott’s hair. They curl into a fist, and then abruptly yank back, pulling Elliott up onto his knees. Mirage’s other arm curls around Elliott’s waist, but he doesn’t reach for the cock that’s straining upwards, thick and drooling, already a painful shade of purple. Park wonders, a little absently, how long they’ve been at it, how long Elliott managed to keep quiet before his little groans and whimpers broke through loud enough for Park to hear.

His eyes rove up Elliott’s body, taking in the bite marks and bruises that litter his chest and thighs. They’re fresh, some of them still red and irritated, and Park has to swallow the sound that rises in his chest when he thinks about Mirage leaving them, attacking Elliott’s body with his mouth until the man is squirming and desperate, begging to be fucked.

Upwards, ever upwards, Park’s gaze travels over Elliott’s chest, the curve of his neck. He’s beautiful, flushed pink where he isn’t bitten-red, faintly trembling where he’s pressed against Mirage. Park doubts he’d be able to hold himself upright, if not for the arm around his waist. And then, farther up, Park’s eyes land on Elliott’s face, and… _oh_.

Elliott _is_ crying, his cheeks wet with tears, his eyes red-rimmed and downcast. He’s avoiding looking at Park, avoiding looking anywhere but at the sheets underneath him, and Park can almost taste the shame in the air. But Elliott’s still hard, and he hasn’t de-manifested his holo - nor has he demanded that Park leave. He’s just… waiting, on display.

Taking a few steps forward, Park closes the door behind him. He shrugs out of his jacket in one quick motion, tossing it over one of the cutouts in the corner. He ignores Mirage’s lecherous smirk as he walks over to the bed, moving to kneel on it, in front of Elliott’s naked form. The man’s flush worsens, and a few extra tears spill over from his eyes, and Park’s chest constricts at the same time his dick throbs in his pants. 

Reaching out, Park cups Elliott’s cheek with one hand, his thumb brushing over the ridge of his cheekbone. Carefully, gently, he wipes away the tears that are falling, and when he speaks, his own voice is soft, soothing. He almost doesn’t recognize it. “Elliott,” he murmurs. “Would you like a hand?”

Elliott’s chest heaves with a sob, but any doubts Park has are swept away, because the man is nodding frantically, hiccupping as he tries to speak through the way his chest is hitching. “Y-yes, fu-u-uck, please. _Please_. Wha-atever you want, just… l-l-let me come, please.”

Mirage has all but stopped moving behind Elliott, but he’s still pressed close, and Park has no doubt that he’s still deep inside the man, applying pressure to all the sweet, sensitive spots inside him. But he doesn’t protest when Park reaches out and oh so carefully wraps his fingers around Elliott’s leaking cock and gives him a slow, almost frictionless stroke.

Elliott twists, trying to jerk his hips forward into Park’s hand, but Mirage’s grip is firm and unyielding. “Desperate little slut,” the holo whispers, right in Elliott’s ear. “Gonna show how filthy you are? You got someone else watching this time, Witt. It’s not your dirty little secret anymore.” 

Elliott chokes on a moan, his head falling back onto Mirage’s shoulder. “Please,” he mumbles, his voice a slur. “P-please, I ca-a-an’t…”

“Shh.” Park shifts closer, running his fingers along Elliott’s jaw. “Relax, now. Let us give you what you need.” Between them, his twists his hand to encircle Elliott’s cock, giving him a firm, languid stroke. The man whines, but the sound is soft - Elliott’s too far gone to do much of anything, other than lie back and take what they give him. It’s a heady feeling, one that Park doesn’t have any intention of taking for granted.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, and Elliott shivers. Glancing up, Park meets Mirage’s eyes, and not a word passes between them, but the intention is clearly understood. Mirage grins, turning his head to press a kiss to Elliott’s damp cheek. Then, slowly, he rolls his hips, dragging his cock out of Elliott’s hole before rocking back into him in a slow, measured stroke.

The man whines, trapped between two sources of stimulation and pleasure, and a few more tears spill down his cheeks. He’s sensitive and overstimulated, and at this point, dragging it out any longer is just plain _mean_, but Park can’t help brushing his thumb over so gently across the head of Elliott’s cock, pausing his strokes to lean in and nuzzle against his jaw.

“You may come,” he says, and twists his wrist sharply at the same time Mirage bottoms out. “_Now_.”

Between them, Elliott’s body goes tense, shivery, trembling as he spurts over Park’s hand. Mirage fades away almost instantly, and without the support, Elliott slumps forward against Park’s chest, fingers scrabbling at his shirt as he tries to cling to him to stop from falling. Instinctively, Park gathers him up in his arms, letting the man all but collapse against him as he comes down from the high of his orgasm, and comes up from the soft, pliant headspace he’s been in.

Once he’s sure Elliott’s not going to shake out of his arms, Park shifts them, moving to lay Elliott down on the mattress. He follows immediately after, gently guiding the man back into his arms, nudging his head to lay against Park’s chest. “There you are,” he murmurs, as one hand begins to skim up and down the expanse of Elliott’s back. “Take your time.”

Elliott burrows a little farther into the comfort of Park’s embrace, seeking out warmth and softness and the intimacy of touch. And Park happily lets him have it. Aftercare is the absolute least he can do after the gift Elliott gave him. 

After a few minutes, the man shifts, and Park lets him pull away minutely. Propping himself up on his elbow, Elliott runs a hand through his hair before scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand. When he drops it, he’s grinning, though the expression is soft and lazy. Content. Satisfied.

“Impressive party trick,” Park murmurs, and Elliott dissolves into a fit of giggles.

“I wanna know what kind of parties you’re going to, you kinky bastard.”

**Author's Note:**

> This pairing is going to kill me I swear.
> 
> Feed this starving author with comments and shit. They make me happy!


End file.
